My eyes are up here
by Cracon
Summary: Despite her get-up, Quinn has absolutely no game. - Faberry, with goth!Rachel and punk!Quinn


**Title:** My eyes are up here  
**Author:** cracon  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Length:** 7668  
**Pairings / Characters:** Rachel/Quinn, minor Santana/Brittany  
**Spoilers**: an AU where punk!Quinn and goth!Rachel are reality, as well as nerdy!Santana and … well … Brittany (in my headcanon the original Brittany is a secret genius, but only until the first Britney Spears episode. After that she seems to have been replaced with a 6-year-old. Just like Rachel Berry has been replaced with a pod person in S2.) So. You know. Everything. Also, for me S4 doesn't exist. It's absolutely horrible and I stopped watching after the Christmas episode, and everything before that I can barely remember.  
**Summary:** Despite her get-up, Quinn has absolutely no game.  
**A/N:** I had this idea way back in … summer last year, I think. My computer tells me that the last time I actually worked on this was November. BUT NOW I FELT INSPIRED. (And pressured. JT, love youuuu.) But I feel like the original idea turned on me some time in the middle of this fic and demanded to be continued in another fashion. Oh well.

* * *

It's the first day of school, she's barely even through the first five minutes of homeroom with the teacher going on and on about _whatever_ and Quinn is already so unbelievingly bored. Thanks to her friends either being a year younger than her, or more academically challenged, she's the only person she knows in the room—or cares about, really—and if the past few minutes are a preview of what is going to happen the rest of her junior year …

Quinn should've raided her mother's liquor cabinet and brought something with her to school.

An unenthusiastic knock on the door interrupts her train of thoughts and she looks up from the masterpiece she's been drawing on her desk (an inspiration for several future generations of promising artists like herself, no doubt—at least until the janitor washes it off).

"Ah," her teacher smiles widely, giving him a thoroughly creepy look. "Our new student." He almost stumbles over his own feet in his eagerness to get to the door. Quinn rolls her eyes. No grown man should be this excited about people under the age of twenty-one. That's just wrong.

"Are you Mister Schuester?" A disembodied voice asks and Quinn wants to roll her eyes again at the overeager nod the teacher gives in return. "Principal Figgins sent me here."

The rate at which his head keeps on nodding Quinn hopes Schuester's head is going to fall off soon. Alas, no such luck, so she keeps on drawing on her desk. It's going to be a dragon, she decides, adding the outline of a wing.

"That's wonderful. Come on in, we've waited for you!" He exclaims happily. Then, in a quieter tone. "Do you by any chance sing? I also supervise the Glee club ..."

Quinn can barely repress a gigantic snort. Because, really?

"Uhm. No."

Deserves him right.

"Alright, kids! Meet your new classmate! Rachel Berry! Why don't you tell us a bit about yourself, Rachel?"

A deep sigh, emitted with so incredibly much disdain that the owner of said voice should be at least twenty years older, finally pulls Quinn's eyes from her drawing to the front of the room. She's instantly mesmerized by the other girl.

"My name is Rachel Berry. I moved here from Cleveland because my dad got a new job. That's all there is to know about me," she says, playing with the straps of her messenger bag, twisting it around in both of her hands. Her face, memorable because of the heavy, dark make-up and the, well, slightly larger nose, is framed by long brown locks of hair with occasional blue streaks in them. She wears a black dress with white ruffles, grey knee-high socks and classic, but worn-out, black ten-eyelet Doc Marten boots.

Intriguing.

And exactly Quinn's type.

Looks like things are looking up for Quinn's junior year after all.

..

"Hey, thunder thighs, how was your summer?"

Quinn rolls her eyes as she reaches in her locker to get the books for her next few classes out.

"Just lovely, sandbags."

She closes her locker and turns around, one hand already on her hip as she stares the person leaning on the lockers next to hers down.

"I missed you over summer break."

"Well," Quinn drawls out, "It's not like _I_ was on vacation with my mom for the last few weeks, lying around on a beach somewhere."

"That's true," Santana sighs, nodding. "But abuela has moved to Florida. So, you know, visiting her is awesome now. Why not exploit that? Although the housing situation with the three friends she's living with was weird. But whatever. I take the little discomfort of a ninety-year-old constantly telling me how to make the perfect marinara sauce over paying hundreds of dollars for a vacation."

"I guess that's true," Quinn chuckles.

"Hey, have you seen Britt yet?"

"Nope."

Santana hums disapprovingly before pushing herself off the lockers.

"I better check that she actually goes to her first classes this year instead of helping out with the school garden and forgetting about it like last year. Later, loser," she says in parting, waving a hand over her shoulder in Quinn's direction while the other straightens her glasses.

Quinn shakes her head fondly, before a flash of blue catches her attention.

A few rows away Rachel Berry is kneeling on the floor in front of her own locker, preparing for class. Quinn smirks and saunters over to her.

"'sup, Berry?"

Sharp brown eyes flick up to her, eyebrows drawn in confusion as she eyes Quinn's hair, especially the bandana that holds all the pink back, and the rest of her outfit. (Quinn was going for 'casually bored' when she chose the artfully ripped band shirt and jeans. Only losers dress up for the first day of school.)

"Can I help you?"

"That depends," Quinn replies, leaning against the lockers.

An irritated sigh leaves Rachel's mouth.

"On what?"

"Can we engage in more than just conversation?" Quinn smirks, waggling her eyebrows.

Rachel stares at her, just stares, before silently closing her locker, standing up and going away. Not once sparing a backwards glance to Quinn.

Well.

Quinn has about another hundred awesome pick-up lines where that just came from.

..

"Oh my god, tell me you didn't."

Quinn spears a wilted leaf of lettuce on her plastic fork. She'd rather keep the mystery of the Mystery Meatloaf a mystery for another day and chose the salad.

"What, Santana," she says tersely, eyeing the vegetables in the little plastic container.

Something just moved.

Fuck it, she's so done with this cafeteria.

Santana slides next to her on the bench and puts her own tray down rather loudly.

"First of all, I can't believe that you're wearing plaid today. Desperate lesbian much? And second of all, tell me you didn't try to use one of the lamest pick-up lines in existence on the new chick."

Quinn feels her cheeks rapidly warming, but she was never one to back down from an argument.

"Okay, just, no, don't give me this crap. You wore plaid, had an undercut and smoked with me under the bleachers every single day until Brittany transferred here and magically became your girlfriend overnight—"

"There was nothing magical about that," Santana answers with a glare in her direction.

"Unless you count the way she moves her fingers, that really felt like magic, I still need to thank her mother for all of those guitar lessons," Brittany chimes in, taking a seat across from them at the table.

"... and that was more than I ever wanted to know. Also, what I did or did not do is none of your business," Quinn ends, pulling the little pouch of tobacco and rolling paper out of her bag. No teacher ever watches the cafeteria anyway.

"That's just sad, Q."

"For whatever bizarre reason you're wearing polo shirts, pleated pants and sweater vests all day, Santana, you're not allowed to judge me," Quinn grumbles, licking the edges of the little white paper and rolling the finished cigarette between her fingers with finesse.

She hears her friends sigh loudly before Brittany puts a hand on her arm, making her look up. "Quinn, I'm saying this to you with love and compassion and the spirit of true sisterhood. Your pick-up lines suck."

A full-on blush takes residence on her face, even as she sputters her defence. "My pick-up lines do not suck!"

..

"Hey, do you sleep on your stomach? No? Can I?"

"Congratulations, you have just been voted 'Most Beautiful Girl in the Room'. Your grand prize is a night with me!"

"Help the homeless. Take me home with you."

"I would look good on you."

"My bedroom has a very interesting ceiling."

"Hello. I'm just doing a survey. How tall are you on your knees?"

"Are you lost? Because heaven is a long way from here."

"Is there a rainbow today? I just found the treasure I've been searching for!"

"You look cold. Want to use me as a blanket?"

"There is something wrong with my cell phone. It doesn't have your number in it!"

"Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?"

"Hey, my hands are cold. Can I warm the up between your legs?"

Each and every time Rachel just wordlessly walks away.

Okay, so maybe her pick-up lines _do_ suck.

..

This is her last chance. She's been at it for a month and aside from an ever-present headache—Santana and Brittany just loved slapping the back of her head every time they heard of a new attempt—nothing has worked out.

Rachel is still flat-out ignoring Quinn and her sad attempts to get her to go out with her, or at least talk to her.

"Yo, Berry, nice rack!" Quinn leers as she passes Rachel in the hallway.

Rachel's movements come to a screeching behind her before she spins around and stomps the way back towards Quinn, grabbing her by the collar and pulling her down to her own eye-level.

"My eyes are up here!" She begins, heatedly gesturing to her own face as Quinn's eyes widen in slight panic. "I am a person with feelings! Get out of my grill! I'm a powerful woman and my growing feminism will cut you in half like a righteous blade of equality!" She ends with a growl, releasing the fabric between her fingers as she turns around again, throwing her arms in the air in a sign of victory.

Quinn is stunned into silence, but that silence doesn't last long.

"Oooh," Santana chuckles as she sidles up next to her. "Would you like some aloe for that burn?"

"Screw you, Satan," Quinn mutters as she gathers herself. "Screw Puckerman for telling me to use that line. And screw her. I've been at this for a month. I'm done with this shit. Maybe I should give being straight another try."

"Oh god, no, you would actually be someone who'd get pregnant at their first time. Just, don't."

Quinn squints at her best friend. "So little confidence. I would not."

"I had that dream once where we were all, like, in a different universe and we were all cheerleaders, except for Rachel who dressed like a toddler and a grandma at once, and you had sex with Puckerman, although you only wanted to be with Rachel, and actually got pregnant, and then we all sang about it," Brittany says out of the blue, still rummaging around in her locker. Santana and Quinn just stare at her. "... What? Is there something in my teeth?"

Quinn shudders. "Okay, so that's a no on the straight thing."

Santana snorts indelicately. "As if you could even pass as straight."

"That is not the point. The point is that I'm done with this. Girls are just not worth the trouble. I'm going to end up in a convent," Quinn pauses. "Well, at least then I'd be away from my hippie mother."

"Oh my god, Q, don't get your panties in a twist just because you're eighteen and still a virgin—"

"I'm seventeen and would you keep quiet!" Quinn hisses, clamping her hand over Santana's mouth even as she rapidly begins to blush. "I don't need you shouting around my personal business on top of everything else."

Brittany closes her locker and looks at Quinn with a frown. "Have you actually tried, like, just talking to her? Because, she seems like a really nice girl."

"Yeah?" Quinn snorts, "And how would you know that? It's not like that chick talks with anybody—"

"Actually, I talk to her every day at lunch in the cafeteria, when you're off smoking. She saw my screensaver picture on my phone, you know, the one with Lord Tubbington wearing his sunglasses, and we started talking about how she has a cat, too, and—"

Before Brittany can finish her sentence, Quinn has already pulled her closer by the straps of her jeans coverall, with Santana squeaking a "Hey! Hands off the merchandise!" in the background.

"Tell me!"

"Uh …"

"Brittany, I never asked you for anything—"

"That's not true. Yesterday you asked for my pencil in Spanish Class—"

"Brittany! I never asked you for anything important! But I need to know!" Quinn's grip tightens, while Santana is frantically trying to ease her claw-like grip from her girlfriend.

"Uhm, sure, Quinn, what is it?"

"What is she like? Is she funny? Is she as world-weary as she dresses like? What kind of cat does she have? What is its name?" Every question is accompanied by a sharp shake, making Brittany visibly ill. "What is her favourite food? What is her favourite drink? Does she talk about me?"

"Desperate much," Santana mutters, finally able to loosen one of Quinn's hands enough to stop the shaking.

"My head hurts," Brittany mumbles, trying to stop the world from spinning by keeping her head locked between her own two hands.

"Brittany! Focus!"

"Oh god, Q, just go and ask her all of this stuff on your own, it's getting really pathetic over here," Santana says. "If you could get your head out of your ass for one second you could spare us all a lot of trouble, and motion sickness."

Quinn glares at her best friend. "Screw you, Santana."

"Maybe in another universe, Fabgay."

..

So, Quinn decides to takes some of her friends' advice to heart. Not all of, she isn't a total loser after all.

AP English comes around, one of the few classes she shares with the elusive Rachel Berry. Well. Maybe not so much elusive, more like avoidant, as Rachel is actively going out of her way now. But she won't be able to do that in class …

Quinn let's herself fall onto the empty chair next to Rachel, which isn't her usual chair at all. Usually she sits way in the back because she likes the security that a wall against her back can offer her. Rachel, however, sits in the second row, right in the middle. Maybe that's why their paths haven't crossed in class, at all.

"'sup," Quinn greets her, while looking forward at the blackboard.

From the corner of her eyes she can see Rachel tensing up, like she's expecting another awesome … another good … okay, so her pick-up lines are awful. When nothing else comes from Quinn's mouth, except an awkward cough, Rachel's eyebrows draw up in confusion, but she remains silent and keeps her eyes on the blackboard as well.

Playing hard to get. Quinn likes that.

Class starts, and aside from some mild confusion on the teacher's side from seeing Quinn and her flaming pink hair up close, nothing else happens. Rachel seems to be taking notes very diligently, the first page of her notepad almost filled to capacity.

Rachel tenses up again when Quinn leans over, whispering "Can I borrow a pencil?" in her ear while placing her right hand on Rachel's knee.

In hindsight Quinn should probably be glad that Rachel didn't try to take her eyes out with that stupid #2 pencil.

..

"Oh wow," Santana whistles, taking her glasses off to get a closer look when they meet at Quinn's house after school. "That's a nasty looking cut."

"Yeah," Quinn mutters darkly, trying not to pick at the scab that is slowly forming over the cut on her hand, "Hurts like a bitch, too."

"But, like, Quinn, it was your own fault."

Quinn keeps on glowering at her hand, but wisely decides to keep her mouth shut. It has only gotten her in trouble in the last month.

"No, seriously. I mean, somehow you have gotten it into your head that you need to be the worst incarnation of Puckerman to pick up a girl, when in reality, that's not you at all. Sure, you want everybody to think you are the Big Bad Wolf with this outfit, when in reality you are just a tiny fluffy kitten at best."

Quinn glares indignantly at Brittany. "I—"

"Let's face it, Quinnie-puff, you have absolutely no game," Santana continues for her girlfriend.

"Don't call me that!" Quinn snaps.

Santana smirks. "I mean, I get it, your best friends are basically off having sex 24/7, and you just want in on the action—"

"Ew. Keep your fantasies to yourself, would you."

"Oh, if all you need is some stress relief, we totally could—" Brittany starts, as Santana's voice gets louder to be heard over her.

"—but harassing that Berry chick is not the way to do it. Have you considered the fact that maybe she just isn't that into you?"

Quinn sighs.

"Oh, but she totally is."

A silence so thick you could cut through it suddenly falls upon Quinn's room.

"Brittany," Quinn gets up from her seated position on the bed and stalks closer to her friend who is sitting on her office chair.

Brittany's eyes widen at the slightly predatory glint in Quinn's eyes, so she's slowly pushing the chair further away with her feet.

"Q! Sit down!" Santana bellows.

"I am not a dog!"

"Yeah? Funny. Right now you're behaving like one that just can't let go of its favourite bone. Sit. Down," Santana finishes through clenched teeth.

Quinn's expression turns sour, but she sits down on the floor anyway.

"Very good. You'll get a treat afterwards," Santana smirks at her.

"You know I don't like it when you to fight," Brittany says, but decides to roll a bit further away from Quinn anyway.

"Don't torture the poor, frustrated girl any more than you already have, Brit-Brit. Just tell her what you know before Q is blowing a fuse."

"Oh. Right! Like, like I said earlier, Rachel and I talk during lunch, but not so much during classes because we only have P.E. together and she's just trying to not get hit by anyone in that class, because she is afraid of breaking her nose, or something, which I totally don't get, because, like, I know she thinks her nose is huge but it's not like a bullseye is painted on it so why would anyone—" Santana rolls her index finger in a move-it-along motion. "… right. So, we talk. And that one time she mentioned how it is kinda cute that you are trying too hard with the stupid pick-up lines, and how she is ironically turned on by your bad girl image. And she also thinks that you are cute and you should just cut the crap with the pick-up lines and talk to her, if you have something to say to her. But, like, that was before that really really awful line you used, Quinn, so I'm not sure how it is now."

"You can stop, Brit," Santana interrupts her.

"What, why?"

"From the looks of it, Quinn has left the building."

They both turn to their friend. Were she a cartoon character, then she would have blinking hearts, or stars, in her eyes.

"Everything all right over there, Q?"

"Did you hear that? She's turned on by me!"

"… I think she missed the most important part of that message," Brittany whispers to Santana, who only nods.

"Quinn—"

"I need to go see her!" Quinn exclaims as she stands up, her hand on the doorhandle. "… Wait, I don't know where she lives," she trails off, forlornly looking at her laptop, before a light bulb turns on over her head.

"All right, Casanova, settle down before this gets even more embarrassing and just slightly stalkerish. And before you get admitted to the ER because Berry tries to defend herself with a brick, to your head."

Quinn visibly deflates before she sinks to the ground again, her back against the door. "But what do I dooooooo?" She whines.

"Oh my god, if I had known that you're so pathetic, I would have put an end to your virginal existence ages ago."

"You know, with the amount this topic comes up, I'd say you're really miserable about missing out on having sex with me, Santana."

"Stop it, you two," Brittany says, trying to put an end to this as quickly as possible. The two girls continue glaring at each other for a bit, but otherwise stay silent. "All right. So, we need a game plan," she continues. "Quinn, it's obvious that your Puckerman-persona isn't working, so stomping over to Rachel's house and throwing a 'So, I heard you're hot for me—wanna fuck?' in her face will only end up in a disaster, and in a trip to the hospital. So, stop it."

Santana only sniggers while Quinn mumbles "But it _could_ have worked" to herself.

"Santana," Brittany addresses her girlfriend, "You're not helping. Like, at all. I know you would like to pretend otherwise, but you are not a relationship guru. Everybody in this room knows that you were just as bad as Quinn when it came to pick-up lines and your public image, but I gave you a chance anyway. So, be quiet."

Now it is Quinn's turn to snigger while Santana is gaping like a fish.

"So, Quinn—"

"I'm not going to start wearing pleated pants and sweater vests."

"What?" Brittany asks, visibly confused. When did the discussion turn to fashion advice? Quinn is just pointing at Santana. "Oh. No, you don't have to do that. You can keep on wearing your 'destroyed' jeans and t-shirts and plaid flannel shirts. Keep your hats too, for all I care. That's not important. If your clothes make you feel comfortable, by all means, keep wearing them."

"… You mean to tell me that Santana is wearing that stuff by choice?"

Brittany nods, a mischievous glint in her eyes, while Santana's cheeks darken. "In a manner of speaking … When Santana was wearing what you are still wearing … well, let's say it all boiled down to her marking herself as obviously as possible. But overall it wasn't really her style. But it is yours. I mean, you'd probably look really ridiculous in some flowery sundress, right? So just keep on wearing whatever is in your closet right now, if it makes you happy and comfortable."

Quinn smirks as she leans closer in Santana's direction. "Desperate lesbian, huh?"

"Shut it."

..

A battle plan is formed and set into action the very next day. Brittany made it very clear what the dos and don'ts are, what topics are okay and which Quinn should just avoid for the time being.

Quinn wouldn't be surprised if Brittany turns out to be the CEO of a successful online dating website at some point in the future.

After getting the books she needs out of her locker, she makes her way down a familiar route, coming to a stop next to Rachel Berry, still kneeling in front of her own locker to sort through her binder. Instead of throwing a crude line her way, she waits.

(Her brain tells her that her standing quietly next to the "new girl's locker," just waiting to be acknowledged, is just chipping away at her street cred. She almost snorts at that.)

When it's getting pretty clear that Rachel is either ignoring her or trying to sit this little game out or hasn't even noticed her, Quinn clears her throat awkwardly. A deep sigh is her reward, and then Rachel looks up.

"What is it, Quinn? Another version of your "If you were a door, I'd bang you all day long," line?"

Heat rises to Quinn's cheeks, but she tries to not look too embarrassed by her own pick-up lines. "Uhm, no, I have something for you," she says sheepishly, rummaging in her messenger bag.

"A variation of "I'm like milk, I'll do your body good," perhaps?"

Quinn actually winces at that one and decides to delete all evidence of her browsing for pick-up lines as soon as she sits in front of her computer again.

"No," she mumbles, finally finding what she was looking for in her mess of a bag and handing it over to Rachel. "Here."

Rachel looks at it with slight disbelief. "A pencil?"

"I'm sorry I made you break your pencil yesterday," Quinn says, putting her hands in her jeans pockets; mainly to hide her twitching, but also because she still feels majorly embarrassed about the whole ordeal. "And I'm also sorry for bombarding you with bad pick-up lines all month long. I should've known better, but I did it anyway. I'm really sorry about that."

Rachel's eyebrows rise up on her forehead throughout Quinn's apology. "O…kay," she says, finally standing up, slinging the strap of her own messenger bag over her shoulder.

"I also promise to not sit next to you in English class anymore. I behaved like an ass. So, I'll be going back to my regular place at the back of the classroom. Uh, that's all. I just wanted to let you know that."

Rachel chuckles, shaking her head. "Really, that's it? Are you sure this isn't just some new trick so that I'll think that you're all humble now because you were only a little misguided in all this, but you really are only of the 'bad girl with a heart of gold' kind?"

"What? No!"

Rachel arches one eyebrow.

"Well … a little bit," Quinn admits sheepishly. Before Rachel can turn away, she continues. "I really do mean it, though. I really am sorry. If I could take the whole month back, I would, and I'd replace it with trying to get to know you instead. I can understand if you're not up to that now, because I made your first month at this school pretty awkward, but I kinda only realised that yesterday after you stabbed me."

Rachel's cheeks get ruddy at that reminder. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that."

"No, I get it," Quinn says, smiling a little self-deprecatingly. "It was my own fault. I completely crossed a line. So, uh, I'll let you go to first period now. Have a nice day."

Quinn spins on her heels to walk to her own class, but a hand on her shoulder stops her.

"Quinn," Rachel says as she turns around again, an inexplicable look on her face. "Keep the pencil, I heard you are quite the artist. Maybe show me some time?"

Quinn's facial muscles are probably getting whiplash from falling and getting their hopes up again so quickly in a row.

..

"So, tell me, Treasure Trail, how did it go?" Santana asks her at lunch, awkwardly opening her small carton of chocolate milk.

"How do you even—" Quinn begins, automatically looking down at her stomach. "On second thought, I don't want to know," she says after noticing Santana's wolfish grin. "And to answer your question, it went swimmingly." Quinn's eyes are already tracking the cafeteria, giving Rachel a small smile as soon as she finds her in the sea of students.

"That's great. Fantastic even. Now you can get laid and don't be a prude anymore."

Quinn's plastic fork snaps in half, but thankfully Brittany arrives just in time to prevent bloodshed. "What are we talking about?"

"Quinn's getting laid."

"Really? That's awesome. Everybody deserves orgasms."

"I am not, would you two just shut up!" Quinn whisper-shouts, balling her hands into fists. "God, why do I have to have two best friends that are so obsessed with my sex life."

"Somebody has to be," Brittany says.

"Or lack thereof," Santana says at the same time.

Quinn throws her apple at Santana, who has no trouble catching it and taking a huge bite out of it afterwards, sticking out her tongue at Quinn.

"I mean it, though. I always feel so relaxed afterwards. Even if Santana isn't there and I have to give myself a happy. Maybe that's why you're always so tense? You should totally try that."

"Yeah, Quinn," Santana smirks, still munching on the apple. "Why don't you just pet the kitten for a change?"

"I hate you and I will erase you from my will if you keep on discussing my private life in public."

"Have you petted Rachel's kitten yet? It's like, totally cute, and really fluffy."

Unbeknownst to Brittany an awkward silence falls over the three of them.

"Um, Brit-Brit—"

"I don't even want to know how—"

"You guys are totally weird all of a sudden," Brittany says absentmindedly while munching on her Spaghettis.

"Brittany, baby—"

"I mean, I guess it's fair that I haven't gotten the chance to even _see_ Rachel's kitten yet, but how come that Brittany got even close enough to _pet_ it—"

"Stop right there, Fabray."

"Well, Brittany started it."

"What did I—" The girl in question asks, finally getting her head out of the clouds. Santana and Quinn are glaring at each other again. Going over the discussion, she realises where their brains have gone south. "Oh. Oh! No, not that kitten. The other one. Like, the real kitten she has. It's the cutest and fluffiest thing ever. I brought Lord Tubbington over to her house like two weeks ago and her kitten and LT have been best buds ever since. I'm slightly afraid that he'll teach her how to smoke, though. I better tell her to keep an eye on that." With that Brittany is up again and walking over to the table Rachel is sitting at.

"… I love her, but your girlfriend is totally weird, Santana."

"Well, at least I HAVE one!"

..

Quinn isn't entirely sure how it happens, but gradually she builds an acquaintanceship with Rachel. (No thanks to Santana on that one, because the only thing Santana provides her with is a constant string of sex/masturbation euphemisms instead of actual support, like Brittany is doing.) They even crossed that awkward stage, where Quinn showed Rachel her drawings and Rachel showed her that she is pretty adept at playing the piano, with flying colours.

"Phase 2 is about to start," Brittany tells Santana ominously at lunch.

"What's Phase 2?" Santana asks between sips of her chocolate milk. They both look outside to the inner yard of the school, where Rachel and Quinn are sitting in the shadow of a big tree. Quinn is smoking (the teacher in charge of supervising the yard is apparently too busy with something else to reprimand her), while sketching on her notepad, and mumbling something through her teeth. Rachel is laughing at whatever she just said.

"Courting."

"… What is this, an 18th century novel? Let's call it like it is. Fabray fucking shit up because she's awful at this."

"Always the pessimist," Brittany sighs while shaking her head. "Look."

Santana squints outside, but the stark contrast between the bright light of the sun and the too dark shadows of the tree make it hard to see any details. "I don't see anything, except for my reflection in the glass."

"No," Brittany whispers, leaning closer into her girlfriend and continuing in her best Rafiki voice. "Look harder."

Santana rolls her eyes, but decides to humour her girlfriend. She takes off her glasses, makes a huge show of cleaning them, before putting them back on and squinting harder. Outside, Quinn reaches into her messenger bag, gets something out and, whatever it is, keeps it hidden between her two hands until the last possible moment to reveal it to Rachel. Rachel's smile grows when she picks it up.

"It looks like … an origami paper flower," Santana says with a confused tilt in her voice.

"Looks like the winds are changing."

..

Sometimes, Quinn muses, it must be strange to view her budding relationship with Rachel from a third point of view. Santana doesn't even try anymore, not like she ever did because "midgets aren't my thing," and Brittany just thinks it's cute, all the while asking her if she has "petted Rachel's kitten" yet. Both in the literal and figurative sense. (Yes to the first and not yet to the second, although Quinn really really wants to.)

Rachel just thinks that it's hilarious that Santana tries to act all "If you ever hurt my BFF I will cut you" when nobody's around, although she is a whole year older than Santana. So there's that.

Their first date is around the corner, and although Rachel insisted that it really isn't necessary for Quinn to pick her up at home, Quinn does so anyway. Maybe Quinn should've listened to her hopefully-soon-to-be-girlfriend.

"Yes?" Mr. Berry drawls, standing in the doorway, positively towering over Quinn.

"Uh …" Quinn trails off. Sure, they were friends, kinda, and about to go on a date, but it was still a bit early to meet the parents. "Hi," she squeaks, quickly taking off her beanie.

Mr. Berry raises one eyebrow at the shaggy pink hair, and leans against the doorframe, watching her over the rim of his glasses.

"I, uhm, hello, Sir, I'm here to pick up your daughter. Please," she adds awkwardly, nervously twisting her hat between her hands as her voice breaks on the last syllable like that of a 13-year-old boy.

Mr. Berry guffaws. "So, you're the infamous Quinn?"

Quinn winces, because this conversation could go either way. The infamous Quinn … who pretty much pestered my daughter with god-awful pick-up lines? Take a hike, kid. The infamous Quinn … who is about to go on a date with my daughter—darling, bring the shotgun! Okay, so maybe only one way.

"Funny, judging by the name I thought I'd have to scare a boy within an inch of his life this evening."

"Uh …" That was a good, right? First impressions and everything? She didn't totally fuck this up?

"Honey, come out here and meet Quinn!"

It got so much worse.

Because not only did Hiram Berry, the one who greeted her at the door, insist on acquainting her with his husband, Leroy Berry, but even after Rachel came downstairs to the living room they couldn't go on their way, because Rachel's parents wanted to know _absolutely everything_.

So that's how they got stuck at home on that particular Friday night, instead of going out to dinner at the ToFun restaurant.

"I'm really sorry about my dads," Rachel says, sounding rather contrite from her place on the bed. "I guess I should've made my warning clearer beforehand …"

"No, it's okay, I guess," Quinn tries to console her, sitting down next to her. "I have a feeling they'd be perfect friends with my mom, if she ever stopped smoking pot long enough to be let loose amongst people."

At Rachel's aghast look, Quinn grins. "I'm kidding. Mostly. She only does pot on the weekends these days."

Rachel just chuckles and shakes her head. "I'm sorry we missed our reservations, though."

"Are you kidding me. I wanted to have an awkward dinner with your dads since I learned of their existence, I don't think a date at ToFun could ever compare to this experience."

"Is that so," Rachel purrs, moving closer to Quinn.

"Uhuh," Quinn mumbles, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, her eyes tracking Rachel's movements. Especially that of her head. Oh dear, is it getting hot in here?

"Well," Rachel drawls, "if you'd rather get a goodnight kiss from my dads …"

Quinn shakes her head frantically, her eyes wide.

A smirk is her last warning before Rachel presses her lips against Quinn's. And it's … well, she wouldn't exactly know, since she doesn't have a frame of reference (despite Santana making awkward comments and advances at her all throughout Quinn's freshman year and up until sophomore year until Brittany arrived), but it's definitely nice, and makes her feel warm and tingly inside, and it makes her stomach flutter with some kind of nervous energy that extends itself to her leg. Rachel calms her bobbing leg by putting a hand on her knee, which only makes the pterodactyls in her stomach worse, because now Rachel is sliding that hand slowly upwards and suddenly there is something wet involved in this equation. On both ends of the spectrum.

"Keep up the good work, ladies," Rachel's dad, Hiram, says as he passes by the door.

Quinn has never moved so fast away from someone, or something, before in her entire life. In one moment she's kissing Rachel, w_ith tongue!_, and in the other one she's standing in a corner of Rachel's room. How exactly did that happen?

Apparently, Hiram isn't quite finished, because it seems like he turned on his heels just outside the door that was only slightly ajar, to open it fully.

"Completely open door, honey, we talked about this. Just because nobody can get pregnant in here on their own account doesn't mean anything goes."

Quinn never before thought she'd be able to match her hair colour of choice.

She spends the rest of the evening petting Rachel's kitten.

Her actual kitten.

That is named Elphie because it has a tendency to go into panic mode whenever water is near.

..

"So, did you bang her yet?"

Quinn sighs. "Must you be so crude, Santana."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You're right. Where are my manners? It's not like I was raised in a barn. So. Have you two introduced your kittens to each other yet?"

..

Where dinner with Hiram and Leroy Berry was just awkward, dinner with Judy Fabray, who insists that Rachel call her Judes, hits a negative 23 on a scale from 1 to 10.

"I was gay once," Quinn's mother tells Rachel conspiratorially.

"Here we go," Quinn mutters, her face hiding in her hands.

"Just once?" Rachel asks, clearly amused by this conversation and at her girlfriend's obvious discomfort.

"Yeah. In 1982. That was all I needed. Nice woman, though. I believe she is coaching the cheerleaders at your High School these days."

Quinn will never be able to look Sue Sylvester in the eyes again.

..

"So—"

"I swear to god, if you ask me one more time about Rachel's 'kitten' I will take your eyes out with my plastic spork."

"Calm your mammary glands, Fabgay, I just wanted to know if you are finished with your food."

..

They talk a lot. Which is just fine with Quinn, because talking with Rachel is nice. She is smart, witty, and also somewhat prone to inappropriate jokes, although not crass in the way that Santana is all the time. And when they don't talk they kiss, which is awesome.

Rachel is a lot of Quinn's first, like first kiss—ever—or first kiss with a girl, first make-out session, first second base under the clothes groping, first unofficial and official girlfriend … sometimes Santana teases her by saying that Quinn saved herself for Rachel. Which is complete and utter bullshit, because the whole concept of that is bullshit for her, but it never fails to ruffle her feathers, which was probably Santana's intention all along. Brittany will always roll her eyes at that and remind them both that Quinn shouldn't take Santana seriously because she doesn't get to be the judge of all of this, when Brittany is her first for so many things as well. That always makes Santana shut up pretty quickly.

However, when things progress to second base groping without clothes, things go awkward in Quinn's mind pretty quickly.

"I, uh," she grabs Rachel's hands before they can lift her t-shirt over her chest.

"What is it?" Rachel asks, frowning slightly as she pulls away from Quinn. "Did I bite you again?"

"Uh, no, not that."

They're at Quinn's house. Because, well, they promised Rachel's dads adult supervision. And it's there, totally. It's just that their adult supervision is in the basement, smoking joints and minding their own business. The worst Judy could do would come up to Quinn's room and offering them a blunt, if she even finds the stairs that lead out of the basement. (Well, Quinn muses, the actual worst Judy could do would be offering to join, but even high she trusts her mother to not be that awkward.)

"What is it, love?"

Quinn feels really awkward about this, but at the same time she thinks it's absolutely ridiculous.

"I've never done this before," Quinn rushes out, the blush on her face slowly extending down her neck.

Rachel blinks down at her, before comprehension sets in. "Oh. That's okay. We can stop if you want."

Quinn bites her lip, her complexion surely matching her hair colour again, as she looks up at Rachel through her eyelashes. "Have you …?" She trails off, not exactly sure how she wants to end that sentence. Have you … made out with another person before? Have you … had sex before and I'm the only awkward virgin here? Have you …

Fortunately, Rachel is her saving grace with a single word.

"Nope."

One of Quinn's eyebrows rises on its own accord. "Absolutely no one?"

Rachel wolfishly grins down at her, while her right hand is sliding down from Quinn's ribcage to her belly button, scratching just beneath it, and up to her ribcage again in agonising torture.

"Why, Quinn Fabray. You are the moon of my life, and my sun and stars, although the last comparison is lacking, I know. There was nobody before you. Is this where the sudden awkwardness is coming from?"

Quinn tries to hide her shame underneath her own biceps. "Yes," is the muffled reply.

There's some shifting on the mattress and some rustling and when Quinn musters up the courage to peak out from underneath her arm again, Rachel is lying topless next to her. "Uh …" is the only sound coming from her mouth, her eyes never looking away from the almost-naked flesh of Rachel's chest.

"Fair's fair, right?" Rachel mumbles, before prying Quinn's arm away and she starts kissing her again.

Quinn's t-shirt joins Rachel's ruffled shirt a short time later.

"Why am I the awkward virgin in this relationship?" She manages to mutter out in between kisses.

"Well," Rachel drawls, her hands sliding underneath her girlfriend's back to open the clasps of her bra. "It certainly isn't your mother's fault."

..

Before Santana can even inhale Quinn already responds.

"No. Drop it. Even if we did, I wouldn't tell you."

"A little sensitive, are we, Prude and Prejudiced. I only wanted to ask you how your weekend went."

..

Origami becomes kind of their thing.

It's funny, really, because in the beginning Quinn only gave Rachel that flower because she was too self-conscious to give her a drawing, and a folded paper flower seemed like a good enough substitute of what she really wanted to express.

Except now Quinn is actually giving Rachel drawings, either because Rachel expressed an interest in them or because Quinn feels like it, but she is also continuing with the Origami flowers, although she suffers many paper cuts in the process.

The first, kinda awkward looking flower was a gardenia. She worked all night on it and could only hope that Rachel wouldn't laugh.

By now Rachel has a full flowerbed on her bedside table. Intricate bouquets, single flowers … they may not smell like the real thing or completely look like it, despite her best efforts, but it shows more commitment than going into flower shop and just buying a flower.

Santana reminds Quinn multiple times that she thinks that Quinn is whipped.

Quinn reminds Santana of her "desperate lesbian" get-up and that she has gotten Brittany almost every damn duck-shaped toy in the state of Ohio, or possibly the whole country, because ducks are her girlfriend's favourite animals.

"Well, at least I'm getting some," she reminds Quinn each and every time.

"We're getting there, too," Quinn calmly says back.

"Two awkward virgins fumbling their way through the dark, I can't even imagine."

Quinn closes her eyes and calmly counts to ten in her head. It's a method Rachel introduced her to, because her girlfriend was slightly afraid of Quinn getting a stroke because of Santana's never-ending banter. At the count of ten she exhales slowly.

"Actually, only one awkward virgin. The other virgin has read everything worthwhile about this topic and grew up in a super liberal household with two gay dads."

"… I'm mildly impressed you didn't blew a fuse this time," Santana concedes.

..

Rachel's dads are not stupid. They really aren't.

They know that when the cats are away the mice will dance all through the house, throw a party, get drunk, eat all the cheese and crackers, do unspeakable things and be back in their mouse holes before the cats return from their trip.

But at the same time … the mice in question are almost eighteen, and compared to some other specimen of that age group surprisingly responsible and grown up for their age, although their hair and make-up would imply otherwise.

(Also, _Nobody will get pregnant_ is Leroy's inner mantra for their whole trip.)

..

It's only slightly awkward. They had built up to this point for some time now, and the only deviation is that they didn't completely dress up beforehand or applied their usual make-up. ("Not that I don't want to look good for you, but I don't want to look like a raccoon afterwards, either," Rachel had said. "And the less hooks and eyes, strings or clasps either of us has to deal with the better. You look plenty sexy in jeans and a shirt, don't worry," she smirked.)

Sure, there was some awkward fumbling, but it was not in the dark, thank you very much Santana. There are some burning muscles in interesting new places and slightly sore wrists afterwards, and maybe one or two hickeys in previously unknown territories south of the border, but it was absolutely worth it. Also, she totally got to sleep on Rachel's stomach.

..

"So—"

"Yes."

"My baby's all grown up and saving China. I'm so proud."


End file.
